An experiment in responsibility
by BeeInYourBonnet
Summary: A sequel - of sorts - to 'An Experiment in Spontaneity’. John and Alan Tacy alone together on Thunderbird 5? For a whole week? It was an accident waiting to happen...
1. 1

_Authors note: I had meant to slow down with the fan-fictions, but my Tracy-muse refuses to listen to reason. This is a sequel (of sorts) to 'An Experiment in Spontaneity', and the characters are based on their movie-verse equivalents. Ergo, Gordon is piloting Thunderbird 3, and Alan has yet to be assigned to a Thunderbird._

_This fic is dedicated to my own little brother, who is every bit as annoying as Alan Tracy :-)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no profits from this fanfic. Flames will be used to light the candles on my Gerry Anderson shrine._

__

* * *

John Tracy's world had been reduced to two things: the monotonous grey walls of the communications bridge, and the painfully slow progress of the clock.

He squirmed in his orange-lined IR uniform, gloved fingers tapping restlessly on the work-station in front of him. Every now and again, his gaze dropped down to the small chronometer inset into the communications terminal. As he watched, the digital display flickered from thirteen-hundred hours to thirteen-hundred hours and one minute.

John gave a grunt of annoyance and sank lower in his chair. Gordon was now officially late.

He glared ruefully at the empty view-screen, mentally willing Thunderbird 3 to appear. The screen – however – remained stubbornly dark, displaying the exact same scenery as it had for the past week and a half: a few twinkling stars and a whole lot of black. To pass the time, he tried to distract himself with a game of eye-spy, but quickly gave up. As it turned out, it wasn't as fun to play when he was by himself. The answers were too easy.

A quiet bleeping sounded suddenly, signalling an incoming communications from Thunderbird 5.

"This is Thunderbird 3 calling Thunderbird 5. Requesting permission to dock."

John sprang out of his chair in his eagerness to open a channel. "F-A-B Gordon. Good to hear your voice." '_Good'_? he thought ruefully to himself. Talk about understatement of the century. He could have dropped to the ground and kissed the cold metal floor, he was so ecstatic to hear another human voice!

Oblivious to John's relief, Gordon gave a low chuckle. "Best hold off on the welcome wagon, John. You might not be so happy when you see the cargo I've brought for you."

John's tanned forehead contorted into a frown at the sound of Gordon's laugh. He _knew_ that particular laugh, and it usually followed one of Gordon's infamous pranks. Having been the object of many a 'joke' back home on Tracy Island, he had learned to be more than a little wary as far as his mischievous younger brother was concerned.

Still, all reservations aside, he would be glad to have some company after so long in space. Hell, if Attila the Hun had patched in to announce his imminent arrival, John probably would have invited him in for tea and crumpets.

...Smiling happily to himself, John practically skipped off the communications-bridge and made his way down to the docking-bay, ready to meet with Thunderbird 3.

* * *

Less than five minutes later, Thunderbird 5's circular air-lock opened with a soft hiss of air, and Gordon – the second youngest of Jeff Tracy's brood – strode on deck, helmet grasped firmly under his arm. He gave a wide grin as his eyes fell on the uniformed figure in front of him.

John smiled and held out his hand politely. "Hey Gordon..."

Gordon ignored the extended hand and rushed his brother with a rib-crushing hug. The weight of the impact was enough to send John stumbling backwards, the two boys staggering together in a confused tangle of limbs. John wheezed helplessly under the onslaught, arms flailing wildly.

"Need...air..." he managed to choke, "...Can't...breathe."

"Oops, sorry." Gordon released his grip and stepped back, still grinning from ear-to-ear. Apparently unembarrassed by his gratuitous display of affection, he gave John a friendly – if a somewhat hard – punch on the shoulder. "So how's my favourite bottle-blonde doing? Billy Idol wants his hair back, by the way."

John sighed and raised his eyes heavenward. "Hm, you managed to last a whole..." he paused to check his wrist watch, "...Thirty seconds before you made a joke about my hair. That's gotta be a new record, right?"

Gordon waved off the comment with characteristic indifference. "Johnny-boy, making fun of you is the one thing that gets me out of bed in the morning."

"Note to self: Gordon is still under the impression that he's funny."

Gordon smiled fondly at the elder Tracy. "Note to self: John is still a humourless ass in desperate need of a good shag." He paused to un-strap the shoulder-bag he was carrying and passed it to John, "Before I forget, Scott sent you a care-package. Don't open it just yet though, okay? It's a For-Your-Eyes-Only kind of deal."

"What is it?" John peered at the bag with ill-disguised suspicion, but dutifully made no attempt to look inside. "If this is another one of your pranks, I'll be very unhappy."

"Pranks? _Moi_? John, I'm hurt." Gordon looked genuinely mortified by the mere suggestion. "While I have been known to have instigated a few - admittedly _brilliant_ - practical jokes in the past, I'm now officially a reformed character."

"Uh-huh, and Brains has reinvented himself as the sixth Chippendale dancer," John commented with no small amounted of sarcasm.

Gordon made a dramatic grimace. "Yeesh, thanks for _that_ mental image."

For a slip second, the two Tracy brothers shared the same vision – one of an oiled, bespectacled Hiram K. Hackenbacker gyrating on stage in a sequined thong. They gave twin shudders of disgust and swiftly sought to move the conversation along.

John frowned suddenly, remembering Gordon's earlier comment. "When you mentioned about the 'cargo' before, what exactly were you talking about?"

Gordon paused to scratch at a phantom itch at the back of his neck. "He should be out it a sec. To be honest with you, John, the flight up here took a lot out of him. He was spewing chunks before we even entered orbit."

"_He_?"

The younger Tracy feigned innocence. "Oh? Didn't dad tell you?" A mischievous smile suddenly curved at the corner of his mouth, his angelic features melting into an expression of pure demonic glee. "You're babysitting."

As if on queue, a slight figure in a rumpled flight-suit emerged in the hatch to Thunderbird 3. His spiked blonde hair was dishevelled and untidy from the trip into space, his normally tanned skin coloured with a noticeable tinge of green. He was breathing heavily through his open mouth and John could see the thin silver braces that ran in parallel tracks across his teeth.

Alan Tracy.

"Captain Peroxide," Gordon said with a grin, "Meet Retainer Boy."

Alan staggered woozily around for a moment or two. "I think I'm going to throw up," he croaked weakly, clutching his stomach in a theatrical gesture of nausea...

...And then promptly heaved what remained of his lunch onto the docking-bay floor.

Gordon cast a critical eye down at the mess Alan had created, then turned to his stunned older brother, smiling brightly.

"Best of luck, John. He's all yours."

* * *

"Dad, I'm sorry, but there is _no way_ that Alan can stay up here."

Jeff Tracy – sitting at his desk in the office at Tracy Island – glanced sharply up from the documents that he had been working through, one dark eyebrow twitching upward. The tall windows behind him were open to the tropical sunshine, and – even across the vast distance that separated him from his family – John could hear the tell-tale shrieks of his brothers as they played childishly in the pool.

"Oh?"

John looked pleadingly at his father over the satellite link. "He's way too young! I was twenty when I first went into space – he's fourteen. That's a big difference."

Jeff set aside his paper-work and leaned back in his chair, resting his chin thoughtfully against a fist. "Maybe," he admitted, "but as far as I'm concerned, he's more than proved himself to be ready to join the team. If it hadn't been for him, we'd all be dead and The Hood would be in full control of the Thunderbird machines."

John frowned at the mention of The Hood's recent attack on International Rescue. He had to admit that Alan – with a little help from Fermat and Tin-Tin, of course – had certainly handled the situation with a professionalism that far exceeded his youth. While John and the rest of the Tracy's had been floating helplessly around in a crippled Thunderbird 5, Alan had managed to evade capture, liberate the hostages, and successfully track down and stop The Hood and his cronies in London.

...Still, while John might concede a passing admiration for his younger brother's actions, that didn't mean that he particularly wanted to share his living space with him.

"So let him clean Thunderbird 1 on weekends! Why do I get stuck with the little weasel?"

Jeff shot his son a sharp look. "I would have thought that you would have been pleased to be getting a little company up there." He paused for a moment, then gave a tired sigh, as though this were an argument that he had fought several times over. John made a swift – but fairly accurate – guess that Scott had also been harassing his father over his decision to allow Alan in space.

The Tracy family patriarch spread his hands in front of him. "You work long shifts, John," he explained patiently, "Three weeks out of four a month? All year every year? It's a lot to ask of anybody, and we always knew that it was only going to be a temporary solution."

John was beginning to comprehend what his father was telling him, and he wasn't sure that he liked it. "Wait a minute...what are you saying exactly?"

"I want you to train Alan. Teach him everything you know - show him the ropes. Then, maybe when he's a little older and he's finished school, he can join you up there on Thunderbird 5."

John ran a hand through his bleached-blonde hair – a habit he'd had since childhood. "Dad, Alan hasn't stopped throwing up since he left Tracy Island. I just spent the past ten minutes cleaning half-digested gummi-bears up off the bathroom floor. He's no good in space."

"He'll learn," his father said simply, "You did."

"But dad-"

"No 'buts', John," Jeff interjected firmly. "Look, I know that Alan can be a little..." he paused, struggling to find the right word, "..._trying_ at times. But he's a good kid – he just needs the chance to prove himself. You were the one who told me that, remember?"

John slumped lower in his seat. "I was talking out of my ass, as usual," he muttered sulkily, already realising that the argument was over and he had lost.

"It's only for a few days. Help me out here, John."

"Oh..." the second oldest Tracy boy gave a dejected groan, "...alright. I'll take care of him."

Jeff graced his son with a winning smile, his teeth brilliant white against his deeply tanned skin. "Good old John; I knew I could count on you. I'll call in later on to check on how you're doing, alright?"

"F-A-B dad."

John sighed inwardly as the view-screen went dark and his father disappeared from view. Good old John. Good old _bloody_ John. Truth be told, he was sick to the back teeth of being 'Good Old John'. Why him? What had he done that was so terrible? What awful crime had he committed that made him deserve to be left alone with the nightmare that was Alan Tracy?

As if conjured by this very thought, the doors to the communications-bridge opened with a soft 'woosh' and Alan staggered into the room.

"John, I think I threw up in one of your shoes. Could you come and clean it up for me?"

* * *

_Tbc_...


	2. 2

_Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really. Nothing._

* * *

Of all the places that Alan had been in his short life, he decided that John Tracy's station quarters were probably amongst the most depressing.

The place was just so damn..._tidy_.

His own room back on Tracy Island was a haven of dirty socks and half-eaten bowls of cereal. John's room, however, was clean to near laboratory standards. He'd been forced to turn the lights off as soon as he'd entered the quarters, not wanting to risk blindness from the glare off John's immaculately polished floor. Aside from a few neatly stacked books and that ridiculous potted-plant, the room was utterly devoid of home comforts. No heaps of dirty laundry, no moulding cups of coffee...not so much as a dust-bunny in sight.

It just didn't feel natural.

John was currently in the station's galley-style kitchen. Alan could hear the faint banging of cupboard doors being open and closed, and felt a mild pang of annoyance that his brother was out _there_ instead of being in _here_ caring for him in his hour of need. Alan fidgeted restlessly in the bed, straining his ears to listen. Now he could hear John talking to someone over the com-link...most likely Scott, he realised ruefully. Those two were probably having a good old laugh at his expense. _Little baby Alan getting air-sick on his first flight into orbit, ha-bloody-ha. _

Damn inconsiderate gits.

Tired of being ignored, Alan gave a pitiful moan. When John failed to materialise in the doorway, however, he moaned again...louder this time. He could still hear John pottering around in the galley, and his brother's obvious lack of consideration caused Alan to frown irritably. Didn't John _care_?! Didn't he care that Alan was lying here – enfeebled, helpless, and hovering on death's door? Didn't he care that Alan had left his stomach somewhere in the stratosphere above Tracy Island? Didn't he care that Alan had been forced too – he shuddered – _borrow_ one of his shirts?

...One of John's outdated, dull, shapeless, _unfashionable_ shirts.

...The shirt's that Gordon always said looked like they had been stolen from a particularly ill-dressed hobo.

He glared angrily up at the ceiling, mentally berating his older brother. He was feeling sick enough without the added indignity of having to wear this grey-checked flannel monstrosity. However - having thrown up on both his IR uniform and the three changes of shirt that he had brought with him for the trip - it was a choice between borrowing John's things or else go naked. Truth be told, in the face of the barren wasteland that was John Tracy's wardrobe, he had been more than tempted to go with the latter.

The subtle 'click' of the door handle pulled Alan from his misery. The bedroom door opened suddenly, light from the corridor flooding into the darkened quarters. Sensing an audience, Alan quickly closed his eyes and gave a soft groan of pain.

"Alan?"

Much to Alan's satisfaction, John's voice was low and quiet with concern. _Finally_, he thought tetchily to himself, it's _about time I got a little sympathy around here! _

He allowed his eye-lids to flutter weakly open. "...John? John...is that you?"

He saw his brother arch his eyebrows sardonically. "Well it's not Pamela Anderson – sorry to disappoint you. How are you feeling?"

John was standing at the foot of the bed, his shock-blonde hair back-lit like a peroxide halo. Still dressed in his IR flight-suit, he had unfastened the collar along his throat and unbuttoned the shirt down to his waist. To Alan's amusement, his older brother was wearing a rumpled Snoopy t-shirt underneath his uniform.

The younger Tracy gave a faint cough and sank lower into the pillows. "...C-come closer, my brother, so that I might look upon your face one last time." He shivered dramatically. "It's s-so dark..."

John raised his eyes heavenward, shaking his head in silent exasperation. "Its dark because you've turned the lights off, idiot. Now sit up and take these." In one hand he held two pills - in the other, a tall glass of water. "They'll make you feel better."

"Nothing can make me feel better now, John," Alan whispered softly, clutching the blankets closer around his chest, "I'm beyond mortal medicine. I'm dying."

"You're not dying, Alan."

Alan raised his chin resolutely, setting his jaw in an expression of stoic determination. "It's alright, John; you don't need to protect me from the truth. I've accepted my fate like a man."

John made an impatient clicking noise with his tongue. "No, _really_, you're _not_ dying. Just air-sick, that's all."

"Speak up, John...your voice is fading." Alan paused and wheezed pathetically for breath. "The end is nigh..."

The elder boy watched with detached annoyance as his younger brother made his dramatic death-bed performance. He really was a _terrible_ actor. John half-suspected that if he were to look the word 'ham' up in the dictionary, he would find Alan Tracy's picture right there alongside it.

Alan's eyes rolled back into his skull, a theatrical tremor running through his body. "...Tell Tin-Tin..." he gasped "...that...I...love...her..."

"Oh for Pete's sake," John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to give Alan a quick cuff around the head, "Tell her yourself you little twerp. She's waiting on the com-link to Tracy Island."

For the first time since John had entered the sleeping quarters, Alan lifted his head from the pillow. "She is?"

"Yes."

He hesitated momentarily, then frowned doubtfully. "Really?"

"_Yes_!"

This information seemed to alleviate Alan from the depths of his sickness. His imminent death apparently forgotten, he sprang out of the bunk with a new-found vigour, crossing the room with swift, agile bounds. Once he reached the door, however, he stopped suddenly, doubled back, took the pills from John and doused them down with the glass of water.

"Thanks," he breezed happily, pausing only to give his brother an enthusiastic slap on the back. Then he passed him the now-empty glass and raced out of the door...leaving a rather bemused John Tracy staring in his wake.

"You're welcome," he said, to no-one in particular.

* * *

Empty glass still in hand, John padded quietly down the corridor to the galley. It had been his idea to install the small com-screen in the station's modest kitchen. It had proved useful on several occasions, allowing him to interpret incoming calls even when he was away from his workstation on the communications bridge. However, in the two years that he had been stationed on Thunderbird 5, today was the first time that he had ever received a message from Tin-Tin...and, truth be told, he more than half hoped that she wouldn't make a habit of calling regularly.

...It was depressing enough knowing that his baby brother was enjoying a more active sex-life than he was. He didn't particularly want it rubbed in his face every time the two young love-birds felt like a chat.

Alan and Tin-Tin's emerging romance was the worst kept secret on Tracy Island...even John – who spent most of his time in orbit – was aware of their relationship. Despite their persistent denials that they were 'just friends', Scott had gleefully informed him that he'd caught the two kids emerging from the broom-closet, hair dishevelled and tell-tale hickeys emblazoned on their necks.

In spite of himself, John smiled absently. _Ah, to be fourteen again. Young, in love, and still content with a little heavy necking now and again... _

The door to the kitchen was open a crack, and the bleached-blonde Tracy came to a halt just outside it. Inside, he could hear his brother's adolescent warble as he chatted happily to Tin-Tin over the com-link. John leaned comfortably against the wall, settling down to listen in. It wasn't eaves-dropping _per say_, he reasoned; he was nothing more than an innocent passer-by, innocently hiding outside the kitchen door, innocently keeping quiet as his brother prattled on to his girlfriend.

...It wasn't his fault if he just _happened_ to overhear Alan's conversation in the process, right?

Tin-Tin's voice, admiring and awed: "I bet space takes a lot of getting-used too, huh?"

"Are you kidding?" Through the opening in the door, John saw Alan give a nonchalant wave of his hand. "I'm a natural."

A natural?! This from the miserable little worm that had just spent the past hour with his head down a toilet? John momentarily toyed with the idea of bursting into the kitchen with one of Alan's vomit-splattered shirts, but quickly decided against it.

"I still can't believe that you're actually in orbit! It's really brave of you, Alan."

Alan shook his head modestly and smiled. "Oh, I don't know about that. I'm just a simple guy trying to make a difference in the world."

Tin-Tin beamed over the monitor, eyes gleaming with teenage-infatuation. "Everyone back here is so proud of you..."

Still hidden behind the door, John bristled, wholly incensed by what he was hearing. Alan..._brave_?! John Tracy was not petty by nature, but he couldn't help but feel irritated by the unfairness of the situation. For the past two years, he had spent most of his time in space, risking his life daily to ensure that International Rescue continued to operate to help those in need. He never complained, never argued...and never received so much as a thank-you. Alan went into space once – just _once_ – and suddenly he was some being hailed as kind of hero?

It just didn't seem right.

There was a long pause from within the kitchen, and John could almost hear the two teenagers gazing adoringly into each others eyes...

"Alan?"

"Yeah?"

"...Why are you wearing that hideous shirt?"

John started suddenly, a deep scowl lining his forehead. What the hell did she mean by _that_?!

"What?" Alan looked down at the grey-checked shirt that he was wearing. It was about three sizes too big for him, and hung loosely around his lithe adolescent frame. "Oh this! Not mine. _Definitely_ not mine! It's John's."

From over the com-link, Tin-Tin gave a knowing giggle. "Oh, well...that explains it."

John had had enough. Being underappreciated was one thing - he was used to that – but to insult his shirt...his _favourite_ shirt, his _pulling_ shirt...was quite another.

Seething inwardly, John spun on his heel and strode briskly down the corridor, wondering to himself whether he could really last the next five days without shoving his brother out of the nearest air-lock.

* * *

"Okay," Alan paused to stuff another fist-full of crisps into his mouth, "So what _exactly_ is it that you do again?"

John gave a much-put-upon sigh and continued to sift through the pile of computer print-outs. "I monitor electrical and radio signals being relayed from the various commercial satellites in orbit. If I pick up anything that requires International Rescue's attention, I open an audio link and request further information...information which I then relay to father back on Tracy Island, so that he can coordinate the rescue effort."

"So...what? You're the operator?"

John bristled visibly, pale eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "I'm the data statistical analyser and orbital-communications monitor."

Alan looked decidedly unimpressed. "You're a glorified call-boy, John."

John opened his mouth to argue, but quickly snapped it shut again. What was the point? Alan could quarrel the hind-legs off a dead donkey if he wanted too, and the elder boy wasn't in much of a mood to put up a fight. He had too much work to do, too many reports to file, too many repairs to complete...the last thing that he needed was an argumentative Alan Tracy on his case as well.

The two brothers were sitting together on the communications bridge. Alan's air sickness was - for the most part - now under control, and he had just spent the past twenty minutes touring Thunderbird 5. Now he had decided to join John in the main hub of the space-station, to watch while he went about his IR duties. Alan had always suspected that his brother's job was boring. Now he knew it for certain.

John's eyes skimmed over the geographical print-out in his hand, a rare smile curving at the corner of his mouth. "Look at this reading for the Australasia grid," he murmured suddenly, pointing at the jagged red line that ran along the length of the graph. "Tectonic activity has increased by point-two percent over the past six months. _Point_-_two_ percent!" He shook his head in academic appreciation and gave a low breathless, whistle. "Don't you think that's fascinating?"

Oblivious to his brother's excitement, Alan stifled a yawn. "Yeah, if by 'fascinating' you mean 'mind-numbingly boring'. Where's all the cool stuff?"

John frowned – obviously baffled. _Cool_? What could possibly be considered cooler than tectonic activity read-outs?!

"'Cool' stuff?"

"Yeah, you know, missiles, laser cannons...transporter-pad?"

John sniffed airily and returned his attention to his work. "This isn't Star-Trek, Alan. This is a statistical communications port. Didn't father brief you on operations before you came?"

"Well, yeah...but I thought that he was just kidding around." Alan slumped limply down in his chair, obviously disappointed. No guns? No explosives? What the heck was he going to do for the next five days? "So there's nothing interesting up here _at_ _all_?"

There was a long pause while John stopped to consider his question. "I installed a new screen-saver for the weather monitoring programs," he ventured finally, "Animated fish. That's pretty fun, right?"

Alan stared at his brother in ill-disguised disgust. Of all the lame things that John had come out with over the years – and there had been a few – that little comment had to rank up there in the top ten. Really, was his brother so woefully devoid of a sense of fun that an animated screen-saver was the high-light of his existence on Thunderbird 5? Alan sighed internally as he considered his brother: John Tracy – the boy who had no cool.

He shook his head in utter disbelief. "How is it _possible_ that I'm even related to you?"

John gave a quiet grunt and leaned over the workstation, adjusting the radar display slightly. "They say that space-travel affects male sperm quality," he commented matter-of-factly. "Dad had only been on one space-flight when I was conceived. By the time that you were born, he'd been on eight." He blinked tiredly and gave a small shrug. "I'm guessing that you were the product of a faulty swimmer. It's the only explanation."

Alan tilted his head thoughtfully to one side and considered his brother through narrowed eyes. "You know, even when you're trying to be funny, you _still _sound like a Discovery channel geek."

"And even when you're trying to be useful, you _still _sound like an irritating little prat." John raised a neat-fingered hand to his forehead and massaged along his hairline. "Please, Alan, I'm trying to get some work done. Why don't you run along, huh?"

_...Maybe go stick your head out of a view-port while you're at it..._

Blatantly ignoring his brother's request, Alan leaned closer to John, still munching noisily on his packet of crisps. "Seriously though, don't you kinda think that you got the raw end of the deal? I mean, Scott, Virgil and Gordon get to pilot the fastest most technically advanced aircraft all over the world...and you're stuck up here – _literally_ in the middle of nowhere – analysing your little data readings." He raised his blonde eyebrows and gave a sad shake of his head. "Honestly John, I almost feel sorry for you."

John stared moodily at the radar, jaw clenched tightly shut. "I wouldn't feel too bad for me if I were you, Alan."

"Why?"

John was – generally speaking – remarkably respectful towards other people's feelings, but even he could not repress a satisfied smirk as he turned to look at his younger brother.

"Because father is planning on stationing you up here too as soon as you're old enough."

Alan's mouth dropped open, half-chewed crisps clearly visible within.

"_What_?!"

__

_

* * *

_

__

_Tbc_...


End file.
